


(We) Stand Alone

by vicariously kingly (pelted)



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Gen, M/M, graha acting low key evil but in a nice way, sad end au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-09
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-09 06:00:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27459877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pelted/pseuds/vicariously%20kingly
Summary: Try though the Crystal Exarch had, he failed to summon the Warrior of Light when the time was right. Thus trapped on the First, he took it as a lesson in prioritization.
Relationships: Solus zos Galvus | Emet-Selch/G'raha Tia | Crystal Exarch
Comments: 2
Kudos: 19





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this with exselch (emet/exarch) goggles on, but they're definitely not necessary for reading. honestly, this fic just took on a personality of its own and got tied up in magical what-ifs. it firmly ignores the official short story's canon on dimensional travel. 
> 
> no real warnings apply, though G'raha is not necessarily a happy, healthy camper (and Emet-Selch is, well, Emet-Selch). please enjoy!

The Crystarium was the best and only place to live.

At seventeen turns old, Zumie-Mei began to suspect it wasn’t actually the _only_ place to live. As daughter to the barkeep, long had she heard the rumors whispered between adults in the tavern’s scant shadows. They all agreed that the places that once laid beyond their crystalline dome had turned to pure Light-filled waste, the monsters and land both starved out after generations without relief. They then, after a few drinks, debated whether or not it was _possible_ other people nonetheless yet lived beyond the walls. Typically such arguments occurred when a guard posted at the Gate reported a voice begging to be let in, that they were the last of their family or town or tribe and they had risked it all to reach the Crystarium. 

No one disputed that the guards heard such things. The guards which reported them were always rotated out from their post at the Gate, as the experience tended to shake them up far more than any other job within the Crystarium. Breaking up a bar brawl or scuffle at the markets was nothing compared to the horror of hearing a voice they didn’t recognize from beyond the wall.

Personally, Zumie-Mei had been told that if she ever heard such a voice while she was at the Gate, that it was a clever Sin Eater tempting a fool into opening the door and she must never, ever trust it.

But the books said that Sin Eaters weren’t that smart, let alone capable of full speech. And if it wasn’t a Sin Eater… If there _were_ people yet beyond the walls, and those within were allowing them to die, alone and afraid, just outside the Gates…

… 

It made a girl wonder: _what was actually out there?_

As the Crystarium’s protective dome was an ever-opaque blue that stretched from corner to corner over their fair city, and no one who ventured past the Gate had ever returned, no one really knew.

On one of her cycles off from helping at the tavern, Zumie-Mei went to linger at the Gate. She stood at the bottom of its grand, heavy doors, staring up at the guard post. Just two cycles prior, a guard had heard the outsider’s voices. As the guard were smaller in number than ever before-- the Crystarium’s need for order had lessened and lessened, and the job itself was viewed as fairly superfluous and unrewarding- and rotations were apparently slow in coming, it now stood empty.

Though she strained her ears, no sound came through the Gate.

Though she gathered up her courage and stepped forward to put an ear to its solid stone door, she heard nothing.

After a few ticks of nothing, she felt rather silly. Tsking, she pulled away, embarrassment prickling red along her neck and face.

Just as she made to leave, however, there came a sound: a heavy door dragging across crystal tile, its weight grinding upon rusted hinges. Turning on a heel, she stared wide-eyed and dumbstruck as the Gate _opened_. 

In walked the Crystarium’s first visitor in almost three hundred turns. It was cloaked in dark purple covered with sharp metal patterns. The edges of a red mask and pale mouth stuck out from under its hood. Though it seemed to look around the Gate’s area with faint curiosity, there was something in its air that struck Zumie-Mei as displeased.

Behind it, sinking into the ground a few yalms from the Gate, was the dome’s protective wall. It hadn’t been disturbed, which begged the question of how the stranger had gotten to the Gate. Sin Eaters weren’t supposed to be able to pass the shielding--!

( _Then how had the rock and sand before the Gate become so disturbed? And what was that reddish-brown hue streaked along its door? It looked like blood spilled and hastily cleaned away, as the butcher did to his chopping block._

\-- These thoughts, Zumie-Mei would recall only in the safety of her bed, far from strangers and the outside world.)

“W-w-wha--?” Zumie-Mei stuttered, stumbling back and away from this strange apparition. 

She froze when the visitor turned its attention to her, its hood tilting to the left as it refocused its slow walk toward her.

“Why, hello,” it said, sounding by voice not monstrous in the least. Rather, it sounded like any other man. “Have you any idea what trouble this city has caused? While I might excuse a fashionably late arrival, it appears you hope to skip the event entirely.”

Finding confusion to be more palatable than terror, she forcibly stopped her back-tracking, tried to keep her legs from shaking, and asked, “Eh? I don’t know what you’re talking about… Trouble f-for who?”

“For _everyone,_ ” he sighed, as if she was supposed to know who that encompassed and be highly sympathetic. It just made her feel more unnerved.

With an absent wave of a clawed hand, the Gate’s door swung shut behind him. 

Zumie-Mei flinched as it bolted back into place. Somehow, it sounded final.

“Dreadful weather out there,” he informed her absently, stopping before her, “as it should be in here. Know you what -- or who -- has afforded you such comfortable protection?” 

Her mind immediately went to the Tower and its keeper. Everyone knew who they had to thank for their sanctuary from the Sin Eaters. 

But when she opened her mouth, what she said was, “No, I don’t know,” and a wobbly, “I-I’m sorry,” because she was lying and she didn’t even know why. There was just something _bad_ about this stranger, and-- she didn’t want him near the Exarch. She hadn’t met the Exarch personally, but her parents and many of their friends had, and he was a good, kind leader. He didn’t need a creepy stranger at his door.

He heaved another put-upon sigh, waving his hand at her like he had at the door. Dismissive. His three, sharp claws gleamed at her, making her hair and fur stand on edge.

“Pity,” he said, though he sounded like he’d expected her to fail him. “Run along, then. I’ve no need for y--”

Blinding white speared him squarely through the chest. 

The sentence’s end died with him. Falling to a knee, the white dissipating to show a massive hole through his ribs, he coughed on a single, wheezing exhale. Red spilled from his lips and splattered upon the crystalline ground.

Tendrils of purple-black shadows burst from the hole in his chest. Twisting and writhing, they enveloped him and began to, as far as she could tell, feast upon his body til nothing remained. 

With a horrified shout, Zumie-Mei sprang farther away from him, her hands rising to cover her mouth lest she fall to either sickness or screaming. She’d heard stories of the Light consuming people, but that seemed to be Darkness--?! Except the bolt, the bolt had been pure Light--

Footsteps approached her at a rapid clip, despite the clang of metal upon tile hinting that their owner relied on a staff to walk.

“Mosha-Mei!” Though that name belonged to her grandmother, it appeared aimed at her. Zumie-Mei turned her head stiffly, almost unwilling to take her eyes from where the body _had_ been. “Are you alright?”

“I-I’m fine,” she said, relaxing a little as she recognized who now approached her. With his blazing red eyes and crystal-encrusted robe, the Exarch was unmistakable. “My lord, did you see...?”

“I see no lord here, only two citizens of the Crystarium,” he corrected her first and foremost, though by how his eyes scanned their area and his tone drifted, it was on reflex alone. “But I had seen also… a figure cloaked in darkness…”

“I spoke with him,” she said, feeling that relevant and also very much needing to talk out her nervous jitters, “and he was-- he asked after you, Exarch. He wanted to know who had made the dome. -- I-I have no idea how he got in! I hadn’t touched the Gate, I swear! He was just… _there._ ”

The Exarch gave her a wan smile, though his ears continued to swivel about the top of his Light-white hair in search of the stranger. “The stories mentioned that to be a terrible habit of theirs.”

“Ah, so you’ve heard of me and mine.” Zumie-Mei gasped. Both she and the Exarch snapped their attention to the cloaked figure which had reappeared, hale and whole, atop the guard post. He leaned upon the railing, his arms folded loosely, one foot kicked back and hooked over the other. “Considering the perspective your sources likely took, I suppose I understand where you might find such a visceral reaction to my appeara--”

Without warning, the Exarch curled his hand to his side, fashioned another white spear out of thin air, and launched it again into the stranger’s chest.

This time, the stranger raised his hand as if to catch the spear. Instead, the spear slammed into a floating disc of black, the two magics conflicting with purple and blue sparks. For a breath, Zumie-Mei believed them evenly matched.

Then, with a _crack!_ akin to a hammer upon forged metal, the black discus splintered and the spear, again, struck its target. 

The man crumpled backward, lacking even the breath or time to shout. Caught as it was in the bolt’s path, the iron railing he had leaned against blazed before melting down the post’s siding.

Never before witnessing such violence or destructive strength, Zumie-Mei found it rather difficult to move or breathe. Even when the Exarch turned to her and urged her, “Mosha-Mei, please, make haste in your retreat,” she could only manage a shaky nod and slow, stumbling steps backward. 

She stuttered, wanting to help _somehow_ , “Right! Okay! I’ll alert the guards right away, Exarch…--!”

Even if she’d bolted as and when instructed, however, the stranger reappeared before she could have made it far.

Within one blink and the next, he popped into being right next to them, his mouth twisted up into a sneer. It may have been her own panic that made her think so, but to her eyes, the black-purple of his magics swirled about his form with far more agitation than before.

“I see you’ve learned well how to draw upon the Tower’s gifts. But may we not speak as mostly-civilized adults?” He asked, then taunted, “I would think you to prefer it! Whatever cautionary tales you might have heard, _Exarch_ , know they spoke true on one thing: I can surely play this game longer than you.”

The Exarch did not hesitate in summoning another bolt of energy.

Unlike before, the stranger did not fight it. Instead, he disappeared into his cloud of purple-black before it struck, and reappeared behind them. 

The bolt crashed into where he had stood, shattering tile.

The stranger clicked his tongue, hands placed upon his hips. With mocking disappointment thick in his voice, he said, “My, you’re certainly set on tarnishing your sparkling city.”

“ _You_ would see it leveled,” the Exarch accused, his lips curling.

“That need not be a terrible thing.” The cloaked figure held out a hand toward them, his palm up as if in request. “Better a peaceful return to the Lifestream than to be torn asunder under the Light’s unrelenting march. While you’ve done well in holding it at bay over these past years, it will not be denied much longer. The Star beneath your feet has already cracked beneath its weight.”

“That can’t be true,” Zumie-Mei said, unable to keep herself quiet at an awful, insane idea like _that._ Their city was huge! Even if there was land beyond the walls, it couldn’t be much bigger in scope. “The Crystarium’s land is just fine!” 

“Mosha-Mei,” the Exarch said before the stranger could reply, “I bid you again, please leave.”

 _I’m Zumie-Mei_ , she almost said. _Mosha-Mei is my grandmother. She was a good friend of Captain Lyna’s. You were at my mother’s side when she passed, and babysat my oldest brother while they arranged for her funeral..._

But he clearly didn’t remember that. 

And she couldn’t, actually, find it in her to correct him, even in this. There was something about his calm gaze and firm voice that stilled her tongue, and made her want to be even smaller than she was. He was their city’s protector, she knew, but she also didn’t… really _know_ him. Rarely did he leave the Tower, especially since the Captain’s death from old age ten turns prior. She knew that he looked deceptively young despite the all-white hair and fur, and that the crystal crawling across his body marked him as the Tower’s master. She knew, too, of his supposed accomplishments and good deeds, and that it was better not to question what he decided upon, as he was the reason they were not all consumed by the Light. 

Also, he’d twice killed the stranger without hesitation.

So, no, she need not correct him. She didn’t much want to leave, either, a bit of her curious about the should-be-dead visitor. 

But in the end, she did, bowing her head and making herself small before their Exarch, before at last turning from them and racing away.

(She wouldn’t argue with the Exarch, but neither would she still her tongue in telling the amazing tale she’d just witnessed-- a stranger! In _their_ city! How incredible was that?

Her parents didn’t think it incredible. They thought it a sign of the end times, at least until she told them that the Exarch had personally attended to the problem. Then they said _it was just a matter of time._

The thing was, the end had already passed.)

\- - -

The Exarch, as he wanted to be called, was not exactly what Emet-Selch expected. 

To be fair, he hadn’t arrived on the First with much of any expectations. Considering that the Crystarium was the last piece of stable aether on the First, perhaps he should have. It was just that in his experience, a hiccup in a Rejoining arose primarily from the Sundered’s sheer dumb luck, and not… whatever the Exarch was. 

Methodically careful? Clearly, since the Crystarium had avoided Light pollution for three centuries longer than it should have. That also meant he was likely paranoid.

Unusually intelligent? Given that he’d recognized Emet-Selch on sight, probably. The city’s shielding was impeccable, though he recognized a few of its qualities as hailing from his own work in Allag.

Clever? Emet-Selch would have given the description a thought if the creature hadn’t put two bolts through his chest in a misguided attempt to defend his city (and if he had noticed that the bodies he pierced with those bolts were, in fact, phantoms made of empty aether).

After he realized violence wasn’t the answer, he at least proved civilized enough to invite Emet-Selch into a space more private to discuss his arrival. That space turned out to be within a carbon-copy of _his_ Syrcus Tower. Though its aether moved differently than he recalled, with its power focused inexplicably and unnaturally on the Exarch, there was no mistaking its origins.

(On their journey to the Tower’s doors, Emet-Selch made no effort in hiding his presence. The stares he received irritated the Exarch far more than they did him, which was a fine thing in his book. Considering the stiff set to the Exarch’s back, the creature could do with being knocked off his high horse.)

“This certainly has strayed far from Allag’s shores,” Emet-Selch commented idly once they’d stopped within the Ocular. It, at least, most likely looked the same. Emet-Selch couldn’t truly remember such minor details. “How might that have come to be?”

Leading him through the Ocular’s pristine stillness and into a side room, the Exarch cut a stout, strange silhouette. Blue crystal covered the majority of his skin, to include a spike off the back of one of his ears and a few jagged lines that crossed over his nose and stopped just before his narrowed, guarded red eyes. Given how that same blue permanently frosted his right sleeve and also radiated from within his throat when he spoke, the crystal likely covered all but his head and a few patches on his left leg.

 _Someone_ had been overextending himself. What an unlucky fool.

Said fool evaded his question. “The tide of time takes all things to places they don’t expect to be. Certainly, I’d never thought to invite an Ascian into my home… But while you’re here, would you fancy a cup of tea?”

“I will take that to mean you’ve exhausted your appetite for violence,” he replied, glib, “at least for now.”

“If only for now,” he agreed, which _was_ so forthright as to be a little funny, “and also because such work has left me parched. Do you prefer green or white?”

“I prefer black with a hint of spice.”

“We haven’t the plants for that, I’m afraid.”

“Shame.”

“Mm.” The Exarch pushed open the door to the next room. It contained a kitchen, simple and sparse. “We haven’t milk or sugar, either. If you’d prefer water...”

“Green tea with milk? Perish the thought.”

“Green, then. Thank you. Please, have a seat.”

Whether because of his earlier exertion or his natural condition, the Exarch moved slowly. He leaned heavily on his staff, and listed toward it with every step. Stll, despite their first impression (but was this not a continuance of their first impression?), he clearly knew his manners, and was determined to -- now, at least -- treat Emet-Selch as a guest.

As he grabbed a kettle and filled it with water, the heavy weight of the Tower’s focus upon the Exarch grew more poignant. Emet-Selch would think him to be gathering its aether for a spell if it wasn’t obvious that all the Tower wanted to do was fully and finally consume him. This keeper, according to the Tower’s limited reckoning, had molded his aether too long after the Tower’s and yet remained mobile and separate for too long.

Curious despite himself, Emet-Selch took a seat on a rickety old kitchen chair and observed him.

He proved singularly unremarkable in action. He lit the stove’s best-looking burner, set the kettle atop it, and thereafter puttered about to fetch green tea powder and mugs.

“Do not hesitate in saying your piece for my sake,” the Exarch said toward the end, a small chuckle in his voice. “The water will take a moment to boil. You might spend that time in telling me why you’ve come here, so long after the Flood and after your fellows’ untimely defeat.”

Which…?

Ah. Right. 

‘Untimely’ wasn’t exactly right. Mitron and Loghrif had largely accomplished their task. Their deaths had been their only true failure. Had they but lived, then Elidibus would not have roused Emet-Selch and convinced him to take this inconvenient errand to the First.

Heaving a put-upon sigh, Emet-Selch spread his hands out in a _what can you do?_ gesture. He let his mouth curve up into an amicable smile. 

He said, “Very well. Here is my purpose: to usher this Star and its souls back into safety.” 

“By whose definition?” the Exarch asked, voice light and curious. “‘Safety’ is awfully nebulous these days.”

“My definition would satisfy anyone’s criteria. The city’s shielding is impressive, but it will not hold forever. Considering your sorry state, I imagine you know that to be true.” The Exarch hummed a noncommittal note. Rather than answer, he futzed with the mugs and tea powder. Folding his arms and leaning back, Emet-Selch nodded as if the other had openly agreed. “And once it -- and _you_ , I’m guessing -- fails, the sin eaters will set upon the newly exposed feast that the citizens make. Either they will die and be lost to the Star’s corrupted Lifestream, or be forced to wander ever more upon the wastes.” 

Something in the aether around them shifted. It took note of Emet-Selch’s words, narrowing in on the visitor rather than the keeper.

He took that to mean he’d caught the Exarch’s attention, and so pressed on with an airy, “Considering how you’ve sacrificed yourself to keep this city safe, I can’t imagine you’d happily condemn these people to the Light… Or am I wrong, Lord Exarch?”

“Just ‘Exarch’ is fine,” he replied immediately. “And I suppose you would be right, Ascian. That certainly doesn’t sound like something I’d happily do.”

“Please, call me Emet-Selch.” 

“Emet-Selch.” He drew the word out, testing its consistency and taste. Evidently finding it to his liking, he asked, “What meaning does that name carry?”

“It’s a title, not a name.”

“Not unlike my own.”

“In function, yes.” But. “I’ve carried mine for eons.”

“So any title of weight might feel after but a day,” the Exarch said.

Emet-Selch snorted. _Sure._ Feeling and being were two very different things.

At the Exarch’s elbow, the kettle whistled. He took it, poured them both a mug’s worth of steaming water, and set it back. Rather than contend with Emet-Selch’s claws (much to Emet-Selch’s private amusement), the Exarch set the mugs in the middle of the small table and took his seat. Gesturing for Emet-Selch to pick his first, he thereafter pulled over his own and took a sip.

The light green water steamed, its temperature slow to cool from its boiling point. For a miqo’te, it should’ve burned his tongue. 

By the other’s lack of reaction, he likely couldn’t feel, let alone taste, a thing.

“Long has the Crystarium teetered on the edge of nonexistence.” The Exarch took another small sip of his steaming tea. “Were there an easy answer, we would have found it. Thus, it would behoove us both to not pretend that what you offer comes without cost.”

“What would you be willing to pay?” 

“Whatever must be done to keep my people safe.”

“... That’s a fairly broad standard.”

The edges of his mouth twitched up. “What a man is _willing_ to do is very different from what a man is _able_ to do.”

“True enough.” Not with the right man, Emet-Selch thought, but then, rare was the Sundered which could realize their soul’s full potential. “What I offer can accomplish what you wish. As to its price… Were you to take my offer, it is inevitable that this Star would fall.”

The Exarch set his tea down. He’d kept his staff in his off hand. He gripped it now with both, his grasp tight enough to make his crystalline fingers crack.

Around them, the Tower’s aether roiled. 

Emet-Selch cast a vague frown to the ceiling. There was something… off.

(In hindsight, he should have sent another phantom to entreat with the Exarch. Instead, he’d walked in while firmly attached to his physical form. He’d pay for that presumptuousness.)

The Exarch drew his attention back by asking, “Would it fall out of necessity or out of intention?”

“Necessity,” Emet-Selch answered. “Considering it would be caused for a purpose, some might call it an intentional necessity.”

“And the Calamity to follow?”

… It only made sense that a being which kept Allag’s Tower would know of the Rejoining’s destruction.

Accepting that fact easily despite its accompanying surprise, Emet-Selch cocked his head.

“Another necessity.” 

The Exarch accepted that without much complaint. He leaned back in his chair, his eyes wandering over Emet-Selch’s shoulder as his mind -- taxed by age and its related, never-ending experiences -- to stare vacantly at the cabinets behind him.

“I came to the First due to a similar necessity,” the Exarch remarked, almost wistfully, “though it was not with intention that I remained. Had I the option to return after my failed duty had proven irrecoverable, I am sure there are moments that I would have taken it.”

Emet-Selch quickly grew tired of his meandering speech. This miqo’te hadn’t the faintest clue of what _duty_ entailed.

Still, he had a part to play, and he would play it well. 

Thus, he encouraged, “But now?”

“Oh,” the Exarch murmured, almost to himself, “I would still take it. But only, as I said, if my people may take it with me. They, at least, I can and _will_ help.”

“I can ensure that they and you benefit equally from what I offer,” Emet-Selch gently (very gently! Lahabrea would have been impressed at how gently, if Lahabrea were still of sound mind and still -- well -- alive) reminded him.

The Exarch’s eyes refocused onto him. His red eyes sharpened with an unexpected keenness, his ears angling forward to catch Emet-Selch’s every move. In contrast, his sallow complexion waned further into sickness, the lines on his young-looking face deepening as he frowned. For a long, stretched-out moment, he regarded Emet-Selch with nothing short of distaste.

Emet-Selch waited him out, ever patient.

At length, he broke.

“... In a manner of speaking, it sounds like you can.” His frown lightened, his ears returning to a neutral angle. He took another sip of tea, eyes again wandering over the Ascian’s shoulder in thought. As he dilly dallied, Emet-Selch resisted the abrupt urge to reach out and spill his mug onto his face. That would have been quite satisfying, but also remarkably childish. “Detail for me, if you would, what might be expected of us to ensure your plan succeeds.”

That was too easy an acceptance.

 _Far_ too easy.

But here was a miqo’te _far_ past his prime, with a Tower that he had a hitherto unknown (and thus undoubtedly limited) control over. Emet-Selch was confident in his ability to best the Exarch in any manner of fight. Their earlier scuffle -- which had been so minor that it barely deserved even that label -- had been one-sided, after all. Not once throughout or after it had Emet-Selch actually retaliated. As their bartering had proceeded much the same, being so simple that it hardly deserved to be called anything at all, he was equally confident in his ability to out-wit his opponent. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t met countless similar leaders, oh-so-concerned about _their people._

(In the end, nearly all of those leaders had been far more concerned about keeping their spot at the top of their people’s ladder. The Exarch would likely be the same, especially with his ailing health.) 

_Moreover,_ Garlemald’s use of the Black Rose couldn’t be stalled for much longer. Although the Empire had fallen into disarray after his grandson’s timely demise, those with the knowledge of how to deploy the Black Rose had began to pool their resources in an effort to maintain some level of control over the colonies. Once their best weapon was deployed, the First needed to be ready to fall in line. 

_It almost was._ But _almost_ wasn’t good enough when it came to the Rejoining.

Hades would not suffer another Shard to go the way of the Thirteenth. His people could not bear the cost.

If the Black Rose was deployed too soon, they’d need to stabilize the First until the Source had again been adequately prepared for an Ardor. While doable, it would set them back centuries. With Lahabrea gone and their ranks still depleted from the most recent Warrior of Light’s reckless destruction, it felt more than ever like he and Elidibus hadn’t the time to spare. Though Lahabrea had certainly been _off_ in the recent years, he’d done his work. Now the two remaining needed to shoulder the third’s share, and... Emet-Selch, at least, felt as weary as his age demanded. 

He would do his duty, of course. He’d just rather not make it more difficult than it had to be.

And so, in a simple, sparse kitchen in the middle of a relic of a bygone era, he thought, _this is too easy,_ but he did not question it. Instead, he finally took a drink of his own tea, and thereafter, with the Exarch’s foggy gaze resting upon him, explained what needed to be done.

\- - -

The Exarch listened to his instructions better than expected, at least.

\- - -

Emet-Selch did not give _all_ his cards away. He wasn’t that big of a fool.

\- - -

But he gave away more than he thought he would. The Exarch was, it turned out, _quite_ the good listener.

\- - -

By the end of his explanation and the Exarch’s on-point questions about the logistics and pragmatics (all of which were mere hypotheticals and possibilities for he and his people, not that Emet-Selch said that so directly), the day had grown long. Rather, the _cycle_ had grown long, as those within the Crystarium had much need for time-keeping that did not revolve around suns and moons. 

They finished their tea. As they’d reached a fair understanding of one another’s priorities and how they could align, Emet-Selch stood and made to take his leave. 

The Exarch offered to see him out of the Tower. As its aether hadn’t stopped churning and twisting in ways unprecedented to its original composition, Emet-Selch decided there was no harm in accepting. The Exarch had proven himself far more civilized than his initial welcome had led Emet-Selch to believe.

As they entered the Ocular, the Exarch asked again after the meaning of his title.

Emet-Selch described how each so-called Ascian, at least those the Exarch had obviously heard about, received a title befitting of their place. His marked him as the Architect. It also marked him as a Paragon, or so the Exarch let him know; but all that meant, Emet-Selch explained, was that he hadn’t been Sundered. 

He declined to answer questions about the Sundering. The Exarch needn’t get it in his head that he was doing Emet-Selch any favors through peacefully surrendering the Crystarium’s hold upon the Star. He also kept it to himself that he thought _Paragon_ a silly label, as he hadn’t been _that_ exceptional when compared to his people. It was just that any sentient creature would look incredible when compared to an opo-opo. 

As the Exarch led him to the Dossal Gate, he asked for whom and to what purpose he kept his title. 

“That’s certainly a round-about way to ask why I have a title,” Emet-Selch noted. “I have one because I was given one.”

“There is no need for titles save to signify a role. But to what end does your role serve?”

“I serve my people, as you serve yours.” He also served his Lord’s will, but the Exarch didn’t need that reminder when they were being so amiable.

The Exarch opened the Gate and walked through, leaving the door open behind him for Emet-Selch to follow. Emet-Selch made to do so. 

Then at the Gate’s threshold, he stopped. An invisible wall kept him from moving forward. Somewhat startled but mostly confused, he frowned.

“Considering the Paragon’s reputation, you must serve them well,” the Exarch remarked idly, continuing toward the stairs without a care, “for even within endless destruction do you not waver.”

Emet-Selch raised and tapped a claw against the invisible wall. The claw went forward just fine, but his actual hand hit solid, compacted aether.

Aloud, unwilling to be ruffled by this strange -- and undoubtedly intentional -- set-back, he said, “Life cannot begin anew when choked by rabble.” 

“A cleansing is how you view it, I see... Know then that the rabble welcomes not that which takes its place, whether it be by fire or by rite.” At the stair’s edge, the Exarch finally paused and looked back. He tilted his head, one eyebrow raised. “Is something wrong?”

Emet-Selch’s ire rose breathtakingly fast.

At a touch, he knew the invisible wall to be an invisible cage. Likely it spanned around the Tower, if not just the Ocular. The Exarch hadn’t been the first to try such a thing, nor would he be the last.

It had been too easy. Too kind. Too civilized.

Sneering, he waved a hand about as though being trapped was nothing to think twice about. Truly, it wasn’t. Never had he encountered a spell he couldn’t undo, given the time and space. 

First and foremost, he answered, “I imagine we both know what that something might be.”

The Exarch nodded sagely. Leaning upon his staff, he turned to face Emet-Selch, his red eyes once more sharp. 

“Yes, I do. Your presence here.” His hands wrapped tighter around the staff. Unlike before, they did not crack or creak. Probably, that had been a signal of the magic he’d been weaving even as he’d sat down for tea. “I’ve waited a long time for one of you to show yourselves. Ever since I knew this Star would not be saved as we had hoped it would be… Well, never mind that. The point is, it would be foolish of me to let you leave so soon after you’ve graciously offered your help.”

Emet-Selch rolled his eyes. 

“My help need not be taken by force,” he said, thoroughly unimpressed, “or whatever small-minded plot you have in mind. But, fear not; I understand your responsibility for these people weighs heavily on your shoulders, and that such concerns might drive a person to act recklessly. Release me, Exarch, and I will consider this grave misstep for what it is: a simple mistake.”

Hand put to his chin, head tilted and ears wiggling about, the Exarch pantomimed his consideration.

“Hmm… I don’t think so.” He dropped his hand back to his staff and gave Emet-Selch a wide, blindingly fake grin. “Now that I’ve heard your plan, it’s only fair that you take the time to hear mine. What I realized was that, considering your role in spreading the Light, I’m sure you’ve an idea of how to reverse it. Together, you and I certainly have the power to change this Star’s fate for the better.”

“The best it could hope to achieve is a painless exit.”

“That would be a merciful end, indeed. But it is also one the Light has denied this world.”

Emet-Selch shook his head. “With a completed Ardor, it need not be. But I see you have made up your mind. Very well.”

Gathering his magics to himself, he considered the compact aether which constituted his would-be prison. While the Tower’s power was different from usual spellwork, it couldn’t bend the fundamentals. Sensing the trap’s weak point, he raised his fingers, gave the Exarch a taunting smirk, and snapped.

He meant to teleport himself from within the Ocular and to the stairs’ ending. For a half-second, his magic enveloped him as always, black and purple rising from within to carry him away. 

Then that half-second passed to a full-second, and he immediately and forcibly slammed back into place.

He swayed slightly on the spot, for once well and truly surprised.

When he reached for his cage’s weak point, he couldn’t find it. The Tower had sensed his prying and relocated it before he could weave his spell. Offensive magics would certainly be given the same treatment. But it _had been_ there, and it surely had left a trail as to where it had gone. Given time and space, he would _find it_ , and rip it apart.

If the backlash did not destroy its maker, he would happily finish the job.

Smirk gone, he turned cold eyes to the Tower’s keeper.

“Careful,” Emet-Selch warned, “that you do not make an enemy of me, Exarch.”

At that, the Exarch had the _impudence_ to look _sad._ “We have always been enemies, Ascian. I am offering you a way to change that. If you decide to stick to your plan and not consider the merits of mine…”

“I’ve considered them, and found them wanting,” he replied, curling his lips to show his teeth in the shape of a smile.

“Then, once you’ve realized your situation, I would be happy to hear your ideas for improvements.” The Exarch searched his face. Emet-Selch felt himself tempted to take off his mask so that he might see the whole of his displeasure. “Know that I draw no pleasure from sharing my home with you. The sooner we might turn back the Flood, the sooner we may be free of one another.

“Before you think to run roughshod about the Tower, know that I have limited your movements to the Ocular,” he added, almost as an afterthought.

Emet-Selch gave him a mocking bow of his head. “Oh? So much space. That’s very kind of you.”

The Exarch gave him a tight smile. “Do not make me regret it.”

“You shan’t have the time to.” He would be taking his leave shortly.

The Exarch nodded. Then, acting absolutely obtuse, he said, “I’d hope we might find agreement sooner than later. As you’d realized, neither this city nor its Star has forever.” He paused. “What might happen if you were here when it was consumed, I wonder? Ah, forgive me. That’s ghastly to think about for anyone, even my enemy…”

With that, he took his leave down the steps.

Once he’d turned his back, Emet-Selch again made to follow him.

\- - -

The Tower stopped him.

Once, twice.

Again, and again, and again.

\- - -

Emet-Selch dropped the nice act by the end of the fifth cycle.

It didn’t matter. The Exarch had sacrificed far more than no longer being able to enter his Ocular.

\- - -

It took them another twelve bells to strike a compromise.

Despite what Emet-Selch expected of a being who clearly hadn’t the stomach for cruelty, that didn’t mean his involuntary stay was finished. After all, as the Exarch said, they had to make the compromise _work._ It wouldn’t be a success if only one of them was left satisfied.

\- - -

The equal compromise, one that Emet-Selch hadn’t believed the Sundered capable of considering the foresight required, took years to actualize.

By then, the Ascian was almost impressed.

\- - -

At twenty-one turns of age, Zuumie-Mei entered the Ocular for the first time.

Two dozen sleep cycles earlier, she had submitted that she wanted to venture beyond the Crystarium’s shields and see if anyone _was_ actually out there. If they were, she wanted to lead them to sanctuary. If they were not Sin Eaters, they surely deserved safety. The Cabinet had three entire shelves dedicated to the Tower’s history as a beacon of hope. Though most had been penned decades prior, she had sought counsel with the Exarch to see if the Tower’s keeper was willing to fulfill that promise. 

_And,_ it wasn’t as if new faces would harm the Crystarium any. Though their city’s resources were few, their numbers were fewer. She’d done the math -- their gardens and water reservoirs could handle an influx of newcomers. Their populace could do with fresh blood, too. The genealogists were having a hell of a time figuring out who could safely have children with who. It was a win-win to bring in new, healthy faces. 

As she’d gone through the process to make her bid for counsel, she learned from talking around that others had made similar bids to the Exarch before. Though her proposal was particularly (as far as she could tell, anyway) well-researched and well-worded, it unfortunately wasn’t _out-of-this-world_ new.

Much to her, and her family’s, and friend’s, and everybody’s surprise, the Exarch had granted her counsel.

Thus at the Ocular, she hardly crossed the threshold and had the heavy doors shut behind her before she stopped to take in its majesty. Black flecked with sparkling dots of white and yellow stretched across the ceiling. Its dark cloak tapered at the edges, fading away to reveal crystalline walls, ancient in strength and purpose. A gilded map of the sunless sea stretched beneath her feet. It ended just before stone steps which led to a glass gateway lined in gold. Before that gateway stood the Exarch, robed in red and white and dripping in crystal to match the Tower. Golden staff in hand, he gazed upon her with one keen red eye. The other had frozen shut under a jagged line of blue. That was new, she thought. That might have explained why he’d left his Tower even less over the last few years. 

While she knew the crystal couldn’t possibly hurt him (else, how would he be its keeper? Moreover, how would he still be standing, covered in it as he was?), the sight was fascinatingly gruesome. As much as she wanted to tear her eyes from his face, she couldn’t bear to.

“Is that the aspiring adventurer, Zuumie-mei?” She startled at his voice. It sounded so-- young, and kind, and gentle. It didn’t fit with what she knew of his accomplishments as their chief defender. “I’m afraid my ears are not what they once were. Please approach, brave one.”

“It may yet be too early to speak of bravery, my Lord…”

Nonetheless, she stepped forward, walking slowly across the glimmering starmap carved into the floor. He smiled at her as she did, and unknowingly echoed words which she hadn’t forgotten after all this time.

“There are no Lords here, only -- I would hope -- friends.” He took a visible breath, his smile fading as he continued. “As for bravery, we will all be in need of its encouraging hand in the coming days if your bid is to go as planned.”

 _Them all?_ While the implication that he would grand her hope made her heart kick up a notch, she tried to keep her voice steady as she stopped before him and tilted her head. “Why is that?”

“Because you will be the first to do what I had not dared believe possible.”

“Venturing beyond the shields, you mean?” Her heart kicked up yet another notch. It felt ready to jump up her throat, so fast and hopeful did it beat. 

His smile returned, though sadness strained its edges. She couldn’t fathom why, other than what she proposed was quite the risky endeavor. She’d known that, though, and was willing to accept the danger.

“The path will take you far beyond the shields, yes. It will also bring us to a new world. Tell me, Zuumie-Mei; what do you know of the Shards?”

She knew nothing, and admitted as much. 

Nodding as if he’d expected as much, he gestured to her left. 

She looked, and-- _jumped_ a good yalm into the air, as to her left where there had been nothing and no one stood now a dark-cloaked figure, their face obscured by hood and red mask.

Just as she hadn’t forgotten the Exarch’s words during that unusual meeting so many turns ago, she hadn’t forgotten the outsider he had swiftly spirited away. The stranger’s presence had been the subject of rumors for eons to follow, though no one sighted him since after the Tower’s doors had closed behind him. She’d personally thought he’d left soon after he’d arrived, disappearing beyond the shields just as suddenly as he’d appeared, but considering his presence here… perhaps not.

Up close, the stranger was somehow smaller than she remembered. He slouched, his mouth a flat line that betrayed little emotion. Or maybe it was just that he behaved less exuberantly, and she -- after her initial shock cleared -- less startled.

“Emet-Selch,” the Exarch said, “if you would care to explain?”

“Already tired, Exarch?” Despite his dismissive tone (and the Exarch’s lack of a reply), Emet-Selch focused on her and, as bid, _explained._

It took him a while. There was a lot to cover, especially as she had questions for every little thing-- but really, they both must have expected that! Multiple dimensions? Shards of a grand, bountiful Source? _Ardors?!_ Her mother hadn’t been wrong to call her curious by nature, but even if she wasn’t, all that Emet-Selch and the Exarch had to say was preposterous!

 _Most_ crazy was that they wanted her to be the first to venture through the portal and to the Source.

… Crazy, and crazily exciting. 

They finished their explanations a good bell or two later, which was about a bell or two too much, or so Emet-Selch vocally complained. The Exarch shushed him quickly, citing something about the need for informed decisions. Especially, apparently, for ‘such brave adventurers’ who were willing to give up their safety and comfort to find and aid unknown others.

That was her according to her bid, evidently. She tried her best not to discourage him of the idea.

At the end, thus fully informed of her task, it took her no time at all to say _yes!_ when the Exarch asked if she’d agree to try to bridge the gap. If she were successful, they’d then bring over the rest of the Crystarium’s people. On the Source, which boasted far grander and less Light-polluted lands than their Shard’s, they’d then begin anew. Their opportunities would be greater than ever before.

Her agreement made Emet-Selch’s mouth quirk up, his air of general disdain exchanged for a more interested and somehow far less comforting smile.

She tore her gaze quickly from him. She found greater reassurance in the Exarch’s relieved expression, to include his warm, wide grin.

They’d done the work in prepping the bridge. All she had to do was step through the portal.

Eager for a new life for herself and her people, she took that step.

\- - -

She stepped out into the ruins of a hell. It was colloquially known as a Calamity.

Ten turns -- here called seasons and years -- prior, the great Primal Bahamut had laid waste to the land. Crystalline spikes and spirals carved up the land. Above her head, the sunless sea stretched. It mirrored the Ocular’s ceiling, only this one was no illusion.

Behind her loomed the Crystal Tower, sans its city. 

Fortunately, it stood alone not for long. For soon after her safe arrival, behind her too arrived her leader and their people.

Throughout her long lifetime to follow, they welcomed in countless strangers seeking refuge from a nations-wide war (involving somewhere called Garlemald and other, closer places; Zuumie-Mei, for all she’d wanted to visit _other places_ , found herself quite overwhelmed with the sheer amount of options upon the Source). They vetted the newcomers for skill and cooperative inclinations rather than Light corruption. 

Though much changed, their leader did not -- not in the way that mattered, anyway. He gained a new appearance: a less crystalized body, with red hair to match his eyes. He also gained a new, robed shadow, who the people spotted him walking and speaking with time and again as they built their city anew. 

(Not two hundred years later, an Eighth Calamity set the world afire. Light swallowed the First, and thereafter drowned out life upon the Source-- save one city, its shields thick and its Tower tall, and a leader who had struck an enduring accord with the sole other enduring peoples.

For as long as his city remained safe, the Tower’s keeper pledged his power to their cause. In the lifestream, at least, their souls again found those they had lost, and those they had failed…

To include the Crystarium’s greatest enemy, an Eorzean champion never granted entry lest the Exarch forget his accord. 

That didn’t stop him from trying his best to help the Warrior where he could. But it was a fine line, and in the end--

A lone Exarch couldn’t possibly save them all.)


	2. [NSFW] An Aside

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a super super self-indulgent emet/exarch chapter that does not actually add much of any plot, so feel free to skip! dedicated to Jackaloping, for all the endless encouragement and exselch shitposting <3
> 
>  **Warning** for extreme body dysphoria, undernegotiated/ surprise sexy times, and references to canon-typical violence. All is meant to be consensual.  
>  **Timing:** set somewhere in the first-third of Emet-Selch's "stay" in the Crystal Tower.

In negotiation, strength oft lent itself to stillness. The first to break a silence signaled a party which could ill afford to wait. While the Exarch had once been a soul most impatient, eager to launch along any path which would take him toward a more exciting morrow, the long centuries’ worth of waiting on the First had taught him how to bide his time.

Nonetheless. Such a presumption of strength rarely applied to the _literal_ lack of movement.

The Ascian-- no, thinking like that wouldn’t do. Ascian though he was, he had proved himself more man than he undoubtedly cared to be recognized as. 

So: the Ascian, _Emet-Selch,_ had ceased all movement for one-twelfth turn. Had they a night by which to measure the days, a full moon would have passed.

At that point, Emet-Selch had resided in the Ocular for a full turn. Though not recently, the Exarch had ventured within the Ocular a mere dozen or so occasions within that time. They’d struck their deal regarding the impending Ardor early into their relationship, yes, but that had merely decided the overall result of their actions. The details leading up to said result were proving difficult for Emet-Selch to agree to. Unfortunately for him, the details were precisely where the Exarch’s primary concerns laid, as they were the parts which ensured his city and people would survive past the Calamity’s reckoning.

In the time hence their initial agreement, Emet-Selch had made countless bids for escape. As his arrival had taken far longer than the Exarch had ever expected, he couldn’t be allowed to leave until the Exarch was assured he would return. Based on the often cruel and taunting, full of shades of Warriors past and prosperous futures unearned, tricks that he played to break his detention, that assurance had yet to be provided.

It was a pity. The Exarch didn’t enjoy hurting anyone.

He said as much one day while he stood and observed Emet-Selch from just beyond the Ocular’s threshold.

Emet-Selch had replied, “Even ‘anyone’ like me?”

“Of course,” the Exarch said, surprised. “I don’t enjoy harm to _anyone_ , including Ascians.” 

At that, Emet-Selch had rolled his eyes so far back into his head that the Exarch feared they would be stuck. 

\-- But. Though he didn’t _enjoy_ it, he would do as he must. 

As it stood, he hadn’t other options. Emet-Selch needed to remain where the Exarch could find him.

In any case, it wasn’t like he actively tormented the other. He kept his topics friendly, if not entirely focused on their deal. He hadn’t gifted the other with entertainment materials, but by Emet-Selch’s incredible illusion magics (demonstrated through the aforementioned tricks), he didn’t particularly need outside enrichment. Though the Crystarium could scarcely spare the resources necessary to support an unexpected adult, the Exarch had taken cuts to his own allowance (which the Crystarium insisted on providing despite the fact that he didn’t need to eat, and thus he had always forwarded to the meager festivities fund as a matter of course) and provided to Emet-Selch the food as requested. He’d ceased providing those goods when Emet-Selch had attempted to trade infinite resources for the Crystarium in exchange for his freedom. Then the Exarch discovered Emet-Selch was well capable of literally creating his own-- and didn’t, in fact, even have true _need_ for such substances!

“There are needs of the body and needs of the mind,” Emet-Selch said.

“When it comes to food, it clearly favors the body’s needs,” the Exarch grumbled back, unimpressed with Emet-Selch’s waste of precious resources.

Emet-Selch scoffed, equally unimpressed with the Exarch over-- who even knew. The less he simpered and scraped at the Exarch’s robes, the more he revealed that he was almost always unimpressed with everything around him. 

… Still. It was true that indefinite containment was a form of torture.

But, insofar as such tortures went, it would have to be acceptable. 

(After all, it had been acceptable for the Exarch.)

Emet-Selch disagreed, as was his right. And for a while, he expended plenty of energy ensuring that the Exarch knew the extent of his disagreement.

But then one day, one-twelfth turn prior, the Ascian declared the Exarch to be the true villain of their little engagement, and that he fully deserved what horrid end he had foolishly trapped himself within. To that end, the Exarch couldn’t entirely disagree, though he personally thought that if _anyone_ would give him a run for his coin on villainy, it would be a Paragon. He then sat himself to the side of the Ocular’s entrance, folded his hands atop his lap, and leaned back against its gleaming walls, eyes closed. He had not moved since.

He did not move when the Exarch called for his attention over the main screen. He did not move when the Exarch manifested a shade of himself in the Ocular, though he always had before. He did not move when the Exarch -- what crystalline flesh and little blood made up _him_ , anyway -- opened a side door and hovered at the Ocular’s threshold for the first time in many cycles. Try though the Exarch did to garner a reaction (including walking away after making noises about being more flexible in their negotiations not once, but twice), Emet-Selch remained still and silent as a corpse.

Shortly thereafter, he began to resemble one. 

His skin grew so pale-- _but, had it not always been so?_

His bulky clothing hung from his frame as if it cloaked a skeleton rather than a complete being… 

The lax loll of his head upon his chest resembled a man felled by inattention and neglect, which brought a death more painful and slow than a knife to the stomach. For the first time since he’d realized his containment, that great aetherial signature of his did not cover every inch of the Ocular. The lack of its pressure against its bindings was, in fact, startling. While his attempts to magic his way out of the Tower’s shields hadn’t ever succeeded (and aside from one memorable brute-force attack, hadn’t ever come close to succeeding), the sensation of Emet-Selch poking and picking at the Tower had become a constant in the Exarch’s awareness. He almost mourned its loss.

If it _was_ a loss.

Stranger was that he could not sense the other’s aetherial signature _anywhere_ , nor the hulking mass which made up the other’s soul. Even in death it shouldn’t have escaped the Tower’s ensnarement, but it was unlike any soul the Exarch had encountered, and _in_ death, it might have had a few unexpected tricks up its sleeves. Still, Emet-Selch had said countless times that this detainment was nothing more than a minor inconvenience for a being like him. Though the Exarch had initially thought that to be him sneering and bragging, he’d come to understand that it was a truth as much as a curse for the immortal.

Surely an Ascian would not simply lay down and die over a minor inconvenience?

\-- Gods above, he certainly _looked_ dead!

The Exarch crossed the expanse between them faster than he thought himself capable of. The rapid click of his staff sounded too-loud in the Ocular’s stale silence. 

Though his left knee protested mightily, the joint cracking and creaking, he knelt at Emet-Selch’s side from an arm’s lengths away. Hands clutched to his staff and awareness keyed into the Tower’s power _just in case_ (for he would be no fool to a possum’s sly behavior) he looked over the dead-ish creature with something like worry curling tight in his chest. 

… _Worry!_ When had he last felt worry for someone other than his city’s citizens?

It was much too intense a feeling. Frankly, he didn’t like it.

“Emet-Selch,” he called again, disturbed at his own impatient reaction as much as the prospect that the Ascian had well and truly passed, “I must say, you do not make for a handsome corpse. Please, rise.”

Emet-Selch did not.

Surely a corpse would have began its decay? Though the Ocular remained comfortably cool and dry, rot should have set in after a full moon’s turn.

The Exarch shuffled closer, and reached out for the other’s gloved hand. Finding it limp and unresisting, he lifted it and touched his fingertips to its pulsepoint. For a moment, he despaired at finding nothing-- but then he looked down and, clearing his dismay from his eyes, remembered the crystal which thoroughly muffled nuance from his senses.

Typically, tracking a creature’s aether was a fine enough indicator of whether it were alive or dead. 

But by that measurement, Emet-Selch was…

…

“Did pride stand in your way?” the Exarch murmured, lifting the other’s hand higher and closer to him. It was heavy as deadweight always was. “You needed only indicate that hunger poised a true threat. I would not have… I am not the sort to--”

\-- to starve another to death? Ah, but wasn’t he? Countless refugees had fallen by the Crystarium’s gates, devoured by hunger and thirst as much as sin eaters…

Bringing the other’s hand up, he pressed his lips to the other’s pulsepoint. There, at least, he could yet feel as he had been born to, though the other’s hand was the first he’d so touched in-- years. Even so, there was no pulse. Only cool, unresponsive flesh.

A silent, unremarkable death.

Alone and, for all practical purposes, forgotten. 

“If this is a trick,” he whispered, closing his burning eyes, “it is your cruelest yet, Emet-Selch.”

He would need to remove the body. He didn’t know an Ascian’s preference for burial ceremonies, but the Crystarium hadn’t exactly a menagerie of options. Then again, how many had Emet-Selch’s callus actions even allowed the dignity of a proper funeral? There was no pride in retribution, especially one so petty, but--

\-- _But what?_

Never before had he been inclined toward… such mindless pettiness--

_Why not? It’s deserved._

It was a waste of energy.

Regardless, he needed to… remove the body. And pay it _respect._

_In this, if nothing else?_

The Exarch cracked open his eyes. Drawing in a slow breath, he gently placed the other’s heavy hand upon his chest. Immediately, his hindbrain mourned the loss, for at least it was another, and he hadn’t deigned to allow another close for-- a long time. Still, the body remained unmoving. His head had lolled to the side, his chin propped into his absurd, furred collar, his eyes shut from the sleep he had passed away within. 

Still. Alone.

_He needed to remove the body._

“Emet-Selch,” he said aloud, “remove yourself from my mind, please.”

The Exarch’s mind was all he had left of himself. He knew its workings well, ugly and jagged though they had come to be.

 _So polite, even now_ , said the presence which had slithered itself into the deep crevices between his thoughts. _What would it take for you to curse me? To revile me?_

“I did that plenty in my youth, insomuch as you might be considered a piece of the general Ascian population,” he replied evenly, “but of the many follies I’ve repeated, that hasn’t been one.”

 _I think I like it in here,_ the voice said. _Though there isn’t as much room as I’d hoped for. Your mind is certainly a piece of work, Exarch. With how your thoughts scurry and scatter at every opportunity, I can scarcely remember to find myself. But then, that forgetfulness can be a boon, can’t it?_

“For some,” he agreed. He did not count himself among their number.

_Yet you’ve forgotten plenty._

“Not intentionally. Only what my mind gave me no choice but to.”

The presence plucked at his thoughts. He allowed himself an uncomfortable wince. It felt as if someone were poking out from the inside of his skull.

 _Would you like to remember?_ the voice asked, curious despite itself. _I can help you. The memories are yet here._

“What would you want in exchange?”

 _I hadn’t asked for anything! Such suspicion is hardly polite._ A beat. _I’d like a bath._

The Exarch blinked.

_A nice, warm bath. I know the royal chamber has a tub suitable to the task._

It did…

_Well? Do I ask for too much, my dear captor?_

“If that’s all, I’d be happy to acquisie.” But. “Before I make the necessary allowances, you will need to vacate my body and return to your own.”

_Mmm, I don’t think so. I’d like a bath now, exactly as we are._

“No secrets lurk in this old husk,” he said, somewhat amused despite himself and the odd situation. “I can’t see how you benefit.”

_Your body has never been the threat. That said, it is sorely neglected._

He remained silent.

 _You’ve been saved from stinking only by virtue of your limited movement and even more limited ability to sweat._ Though his current state had no form, the Exarch could easily see Emet-Selch sticking up his nose. 

The disparagement was a more comfortable sentiment. The Exarch’s lips twitched up. “Were I to reek, would you be less inclined to hitch a ride?”

_Absolutely._

“One moment as I make my rounds across the city to ensure all is in order, then. You’ll find my body despises physical activity nearly as much as you appear to. The Ocular’s edge should also cast you out of this vessel.”

 _Before you do, let me to care for it._ The presence spread itself out along his skin, prickling along what flesh it could find. _Allow me a bath._

“Allow you a bath, in my body.”

_Just one bath._

“...”

He could expul the Ascian himself. Never before had he the cause to try, but he knew it to be possible simply because there was no moving forward if he did not. Without another option, much became possible.

Just a bath, was it.

“Very well.”

He felt as if he were watching from the ceiling as he stood. The Garlean body, vacant of a soul, remained at his feet. 

Around him, the Tower obligingly shifted its boundaries for its visitor to include the royal chamber’s bathroom. Whether Emet-Selch caught the method of shifting did not matter, for the boundaries were in themselves absolute and not, actually, completely within the Exarch’s understanding (as a precautionary measure for this exact scenario, actually, because the Exarch knew well the stories of an Ascian’s penchant for body-hopping). As he carved a teleportation path from the Ocular to that bathroom, the presence in his mind gave an approving pulse of heat across his skin. Though it had to be purely in his mind-- Emet-Selch would not risk messing with his physiology, he thought, lest he accidentally release his captor’s soul and be stuck in the Ocular til the Crystarium’s shielding crumbled and the Light devoured the First in whole- it felt, well. It felt quite warm.

“How did you mask your soul from my detection?”

_I placed the body into a stasis, exited it, and then spread my essence so finely across the Ocular that none save a master of aetherial sight might have identified me for what I was._

“You kept it up for quite some time.”

_When a soul such as mine lacks a physical form, one moment might as well be the next. Time becomes immaterial. All that matters is one’s ability to hold very, very still._

“To my understanding, that is no easy feat for even the greatest mages.”

A warmth beyond the steaming water he sat in lodged in his chest, coiling tightly behind what had once been his heart. Despite that clear approval, Emet-Selch said, _What an incredibly obvious compliment to make. It’s true that your greatest mages could learn a thing or two from me. In any case, aren’t you supposed to be enjoying this bath? Focus on that._

Emet-Selch had done exactly as his word had made the Exarch expect. After the Exarch arrived at the royal bath, Emet-Selch directed him to draw water from the Tower’s reservoir, which the Exarch had neglected after discovering it had an aether-altering effect on those who drank it. After he’d filled the tub to an exacting degree, Emet-Selch then instructed him in digging out old, exceedingly dusty soap bottles from a cabinet that he hadn’t realized was there. Intrigued by their appearance despite feeling some concern over their age, the Exarch poured from each bottle an amount specifiedby the apparent bath-expert, Emet-Selch, into the then-steaming tub. Blue and pink bubbles frothed by the tap as a lovely lavender fragrance filled the humid room.

Objectively, it was an excellent bath. It clearly roused some sort of happy memory in Emet-Selch, as he curled up just behind the Exarch’s awareness and ceased his poking and prodding in order to better bask in the moment. 

At the quarter-turn mark of his detention, he had told the Exarch that _if you insist on keeping me here without other entertainment, you will have to do._

He’d made well on that promise. To begin, he’d illusioned the Ocular to look like Rapture. At first it had been a peaceful scene, but soon meteors had fallen and struck the Crystarium’s shields, shattering them irreparably. Sin eaters then rampaged through the streets, devouring the defenseless populace. In the midst of the chaos had been Emet-Selch, his hands folded behind his back and a light frown on his face. His pale eyes reflected the meteor’s fire; when he turned them to the Exarch, they seemed to ask whether he’d stand by _yet again_ , continue _negotiating_ and _haggling_ til this hell came to pass?

The Exarch had refused to give him the reaction he so clearly desired, but it had been--- difficult.

The meteors stuck with him more than the sin eaters. It had reminded him of an older Calamity, of Bahamut’s rage… No, not that. An even _older_ Calamity, one he had no name or explanation for.

In any case.

A bath was far preferable to such heartache.

Though the process had been… entertaining.

He was obviously a creature of comfort, and he knew what he liked.

“You must be unique even among your ken.”

 _I am. But, I have the inkling that you mean more than merely my exemplary aetherial prowess._

The presence sounded farther away in the Exarch’s mind, as if Emet-Selch had wandered to the other end of the opulent room. The Exarch made a private note to ask him how he did that, and what exactly it meant.

Before he could, the presence abruptly snapped closer, its voice tinged with petulence. _How are you still thinking so loudly? Neither of us will enjoy the bath at this rate._

“Can you feel it?”

_What sort of inane question is that? I feel it the same as you._

He could hardly feel it.

It looked like an excellent bath. It smelled excellent. All he knew of it otherwise was simple warmth with the slightest added pressure that came with being submerged in a liquid.

When he glanced down, all he saw beneath the lingering soap and clear-blue tinge of water, was bright-blue crystal.

Abruptly, he did not want to be in the bath.

Gorge rising, he swallowed fast and redirected his eyes to the bathroom’s gold-white pillar.

 _What was that?_ Emet-Selch asked, because there was no hiding matters of the heart from a being stuck within it. _Exarch. My, oh my, did you just feel something?_

Laugh colliding with surprise and catching in his throat, the Exarch coughed. 

Tight-voiced, still recovering, he asked back, “What do you mean by that?”

 _In a storm, one raindrop can hardly be pulled from the next. You, my dear, have quite the storm in your heart. But then, whatever you just felt-- ah, that was an eye of a hurricane. A lynchpin to your emotional overabundance._ He paused. _You’re clearly not body-shy. You hardly even blinked before you shed your robes and walked into here. So, what is it?_

Body-shy… Hah!

What was left of his body could hardly even be called his. Years prior, he’d finally understood what his heritage meant: that, from bone to blood, his body belonged to Allag’s enduring legacy. 

All he had was his mind.

_No answer? Fine, I am capable of my own research… What little is even necessary. It must be-- ah! … Ah-hah, I see now the problem._

“Do you?” the Exarch said, distinctly uninterested in Emet-Selch’s current line of prying. He should have expected this, but--

_You’re more raw aether than flesh, and you haven’t attuned yourself?_

A light frown traced itself upon the Exarch’s face. “You needn’t ask questions you know the answer to, Emet-Selch. There are easier ways to be insulting. You’ve utilized most of them, in fact.”

_I could enlighten you as the possibilities, if you’d like._

Aside from the bath, what had they yet agreed upon? Or even compromised on?

… This, apparently, as the Exarch couldn’t find it in him to say no. Whatever Emet-Selch did with the body wouldn’t involve irreparable harm. And, truthfully, with how long it’d been since the Exarch had truly _felt_ anything below the collarbone besides the ever-aching _the crystal has spread from here to there; the crystal has cracked, and must not be moved lest your knees give out from the pain and you fall, prone, for the next half-cycle; and,_ his least favorite, _the crystal longs for the Tower, even though he was a mere five steps from its gate_. If Emet-Selch’s methods resulted in even a sizzle, it’d be interesting.

Curiosity piqued, the Exarch said, “Your definition of ‘attune’ is, perhaps, broader than the one I am used to.”

 _Undoubtedly. Here, allow me to demonstrate._

The Exarch experienced the briefest moment where he wondered if he should not, perhaps, have been so self-assured of his safety in Emet-Selch’s unfortunately capable hands.

Then the moment passed, as the crystal in his body began to shimmer with white-and-gold light. Involuntarily, his eyes snapped back down to see what exactly was going on with the thing he called his body. The shine started from deep within, which uncomfortably highlighted for him the fact that no fleshy muscle or calcium-strong bones remained under the crystal, then spread up and out til he glowed from throat to toe. 

Thoughts blanking at the sight, he opened his mouth, an--d-

And--

A--n-

“ _Ah_ ,” he gasped, light and high and short, the air he pretended to breathe gone from him all at once. “Ah, what--? This. You’ve. I.”

The bath no longer simply looked excellent.

It felt incredible. Heat seeped into him, softening the crystalline ache from his joints that begged him to stand still and never again move, relaxing what had once been muscle and calming what cracks in his body had yet to fully seal, including a crack he hadn’t even _realized_ had formed across his knee from when he’d moved too fast to reach what he’d thought to be Emet-Selch’s corpse. It had been lost beneath the soreness he always bore, the ache that was truly pain but he couldn’t call it pain lest he admit to himself how very much he wished to lay down and never get up if only to be given a moment’s respite, or how sometimes he had to face the Tower’s call and convince himself _not_ to answer, because becoming one with it didn’t sound so bad in the face of so-- much- _weight._

Here, he received his moment’s respite.

Yet. He could still move. 

He could slip himself a little lower into the bath, tilt his head back to rest against the cool, steam-damp tile. Feel the tickle of his braid’s loose hairs against the back of his neck, and the vague itch of the hair stuck to his forehead and shoulders. Tap his fingers against the bench and feel the smooth glide of crystal over polished marble. Stretch out his legs and remember how muscle felt after a great stretch.

Suck in a deep, deep breath, and _taste_ the heat in the air.

 _There you are,_ the voice in his mind murmured. _A magnificent concentration of raw aether, at last align with-- what is happening to your face? … Are those tears?_

For the first time in a long time, his tail moved of its own accord. A happy twitch, a slight curl. The water muffled the click of crystal against marble.

Emet-Selch sent a pulse of amusement against his chest. While before such displays had felt akin to a knock on his skin, against the sensation of water and marble and the air’s heavy, cozy humidity, it was barely a whisper. 

_To think such a small think arrests you so. Will you ever want to leave this place?_

_Must I?_ the Exarch wondered.

_Eventually._

The Exarch startled, just a teeny, tiny bit. _You could hear my thoughts all along--?_

_Hardly. If I could, I would not be where I am. No, worry not. I hear only those directed so clearly toward me._

Ah.

Hm. 

Even so relaxed, he didn’t much like the sound of that.

But…

This was indeed a kind thing for Emet-Selch to do. More than, even, though the other had possibly not expected it to be taken as much. Hoped, but not expected. Absent a pulled rug from under his feet in the near future, the Exarch felt he owed some reciprocity.

“I believe I will remain here for… a bit.”

Internally, he winced.

That was so inarticulate…!

Mercifully, Emet-Selch didn’t comment on it. The Exarch received the distinct impression of a cat that had drifted into a room to make sure what strangeness it heard wasn’t threatening, and now, so reassured, was happy to return to its nap in the sun.

As Emet-Selch curled himself into the farthest recesses of the Exarch’s awareness, the Exarch sat and felt and wept.

After no time at all, it began to feel like drowning.

“We must return.”

 _Mm?_ the presence in the corner of his mind uncurled, spreading slow and curious across his awareness. _Return? What for? Aren’t we having fun? This is the most fun I’ve had in many moons, no thanks to you._

Many moons, was it? Another reminder that Emet-Selch had managed what he had not, despite all the effort and aid given to him: to cross the rift between Source and First…

The Exarch squeezed his eyes shut tighter and willed away the never-ending wetness from the corners.

As with the last few times he’d tried, he then shifted his weight slightly and _more_ began to gather.

“This… has been a fascinating experience, but it must… come to an end.” He managed to force out, his voice small to his own ears. “Your _actual_ body awaits.”

He wanted to move. He needed to move. The tub had grown lukewarm but he could not bring himself to raise from it, or even to summon the energy necessary for a teleport back to the Ocular (clothing be damned-- it wasn’t like he could catch a cold).

 _... Add more hot water,_ Emet-Selch chided after he’d taken stock of the situation, evidently unaware of the greater predicament at hand. _It will be comfortable again in no time, and we can go back to our comfortable silence. Why rush out? It isn’t as if you need worry about pruning._

Because the faucet was closer to the exit than where he was currently seated, he tried to follow that advice. 

His legs supported his attempt long enough for him to lean forward and begin to lift himself from the water, and then they gave way. Relaxation had sapped the strength from his limbs. In its place grew weariness, a consuming exhaustion that demanded he remain exactly where he was. At the same time, a contradictory heat built under his skin, commanding he _do something_ to let it out.

 _Honestly, what’s gotten into you?_ Emet-Selch grumbled, almost sulky. _You’re making quite the ruckus in here. I was enjoying the calm._

Was an Ascian ever truly calm? Did he not plot on his escape and the Exarch’s demise every second of every day?

\-- At that exact moment, the Exarch decided he didn’t, and couldn’t, care.

He had to figure out what Emet-Selch did and reverse it. He had too--

_What did you do? Everything now is… itchy. Have you an allergy to soap? Or just to relaxation? … No, wait a moment. That’s-- **oh.**_

Long inhale, short exhale. The Exarch focused on the motions to refocus himself from the overwhelming _much_ that was his body. 

When Emet-Selch remained uncharacteristically quiet, he prompted, “Oh?” 

_If relief was all you sought, you could have just said._ A soul moving itself to the fore was a particular thing, especially when it was not even one’s own soul. _I’m currently inhabiting your body. Insofar as the physical goes, there’s hardly any secrets for you to keep._

 _You’ll have to be more eloquent than that if I am to understand,_ he thought loudly, hoping it would reach the other. The longer he stayed where he didn’t wish to be, the more aware he became of the water surrounding him, and just how much he’d like to be out of it.

 _I’ll do you one better,_ Emet-Selch replied, silken enough to alarm the Exarch, _and provide you another demonstration. How does that sound?_

_Demonstration of what, exactly?_

_I promise it’ll feel good._

_That doesn’t answer my question._

_Does this?_

\-- Somehow, he must have turned the water back to boiling. That was the only explanation the Exarch could think of for why the prickling across his form became a steadily rising burn, and why, consequently, he very much needed to crawl out of his skin.

Bracing his legs on the tub’s floor, feet scrabbling slightly for purchase as his limbs trembled and shivered, he had the inane thought that if only he could touch less of everything, he’d feel better. Arching his back, he gasped and _floundered_ , his thoughts breaking and scattering across the floor while his fingers curling tight on the submerged bench’s edge. Tail curling high, ears pinned sideways, he pressed the back of his head to the cool tile beyond the tub’s edge and -- could not get up, could not move, could only brace himself and ride out --

Death. It felt like death. 

Better than death, actually. That was quite the feat, as the Exarch had come to believe that for him, death would provide the greatest relief.

 _Incredible,_ Emet-Selch murmured, sounding everywhere at once. It was _his_ presence igniting the all-consuming heat, the Exarch foggily realized. His movements across the aether in his body, his hold on the Exarch’s mind. He’d ingratiated himself into every nook and cranny of the Exarch’s form. 

The Exarch should have been more worried.

He was just a little distracted with dying.

Emet-Selch commented, idle but, impossibly, also borderline affectionate, _You can’t truly be this sensitive._

To _what?_ Death?

_Death? And they call me melodramatic!_

The Exarch didn’t-- understand-

_Still? Honestly. It’s simple chemistry._

Had he muscles, they surely would’ve been cramping from how tense he held himself.

He didn’t know what to do with his _everything._ And so, he did what he had become the best at: he tried to run. Just until he found somewhere safe to hide. 

As he finally found his footing, pushing himself unsteadily off the bench, water falling in a rush down his chest to splash at his waist, the heat began to center itself below what had been his gut. Then and only then did instinct old and forgotten, a drive long-abandoned, spark itself back into being. At last, he gained an inkling of what Emet-Selch was doing. 

The building sensation of _pleasure_ , exquisitely physical and centuries-long absent, took him out at the knees.

Wobbling, he crashed back into to his bench. Abruptly flooded with the feeling of vulnerability, he twisted, hunched and curled his legs hastily to his chest. Sucking in gulps of air as he clung to the bath’s edge, he shivered and shook, his tail a solid strip around his legs, its end tucking reflexively between his chest and thighs and brushing-- over- 

There was nothing there but crystal!

\-- Or so he told himself, even as he shuddered through a-- a- wave of white-hot flame, his toes curling, his eyes and jaw clenched shut tight. For that moment, his wits were well and truly lost.

The room’s marbled caught and echoed his moan back to him. A drawn-out, needy thing, it surprised and embarrassed him in turn. Burying his face into his knees, ears laid low, he rode out the near-painful pleasure that built and crashed and built and crashed again through his body. Even as the main force passed, the aftershocks left him twitching and panting. There was no way for such pleasure, unknown as it came to be, to be gentle with him.

For the first time in a never-ending life, it _felt_ like his body. And better yet, it didn’t hurt… Not truly.

He could scarcely think through it, let alone demand its source to stop.

Nonetheless, time passed. Eventually, even the aftershocks ceased, and slowly, he became aware that he was capable of moving. Everything yet felt too-sensitive and too-much, the water and the no-longer-comforting press of the humid air and all senses newly remembered in between, but he decided he wished to leave the bath because he wanted to be dry. Not just because the world was killing him.

Then, Emet-Selch spoke. 

_How was that?_

In reply, he coughed out a laugh. He could manage little better.

 _Mm. I’d agree._

Satisfaction dripped from the thought. If they were sharing one body, it only made sense that he would also feel...

 _You’re welcome,_ the Exarch thought at him. 

_Ooh, cheeky._

Perhaps. 

Emet-Selch reeled his presence back to the corner of the Exarch’s mind. As he did, the effects of his ‘attunement’ seemed to fade a little. Removing him completely from the Exarch’s mind would likely return him to the statuesque state he’d come to think of as normal. While a quiet, small part of him begged him to grab Emet-Selch and force him back to the fore, the louder, smarter part of him realized that was likely exactly what Emet-Selch wanted him to do. Curling one hand around an upper arm, the Exarch squeezed his fingers just to feel the tingling press of crystal on crystal before it completely left. He would remember it.

It would be hard to forget. The whole situation would be, including its temptations.

Ascians, ever-plotting…

… Well. Unfortunately for Emet-Selch, the Exarch had gotten quite skilled at enjoying what he could, while he could.

“After I am dry and dressed,” the Exarch said, cracking open his eyes to focus, blurrily, on the white-gold pillar across the way (lest he think too long on temptations bound to drag him and his people straight to the grave), “we’ll return to the Ocular, and you’ll return to your body.”

He had no actual way to enforce that. For all his preparations in detaining his guest, none had offered him a sure way to repel an Ascian’s possession. Far more had cautioned that once one poured its soul into a mortal’s vessel, there was no expelling it in entirety. 

So. They could last in a stalemate of wills and minds for as long as Emet-Selch wished to.

Emet-Selch, undoubtedly aware of that, took a moment to consider before his reply.

To the Exarch’s vague surprise, that reply was: _Very well._

… Then, _Thank you for the bath, Exarch. It was lovely, but really, there was no beating the company._

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading!! find me at peltyfluff on twitter if you like :)


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